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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25098952">Heavy (Max Miller/Reader)</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/e_n_silvermane/pseuds/e_n_silvermane'>e_n_silvermane</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Supernatural</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst, F/M, Fluff, I just feel so bad for Max. All the time. I want him to experience nice things, I love writing imagery/scenery so if that's your cup of tea; hop right in, Imagery, prime example of "you want it? you write it", scenery, technically this is an AU where Sam saves Max from killing himself. guess i oughta mention that, this what i mean when i say i'm in my feelings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-07-06</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-07-06</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 06:09:03</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Not Rated</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>6,417</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25098952</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/e_n_silvermane/pseuds/e_n_silvermane</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam is able to stop Max from killing anyone else, including himself. It's incredibly hard to find the right things to say to someone who has suffered as much as Max has, and for the moment, he's okay. Unstable, yet alive. But... what now?<br/>Enter Reader, who has the superb power of a "heavy aura". She has bountiful control over her own emotions, so much so that whatever she's feeling will be impressed upon everyone around her. Sam and Dean are hoping she can take care of Max for a while, at least until they find a permanent place for him to stay and rebuild his life. In the meantime, Reader's got some work to do...</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Max Miller/Reader</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Heavy (Max Miller/Reader)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>I'm not actually sure how old Max Miller is. I always assumed he was in the 18-20 range, so we'll say he's 18 here - nice round number :) He's a short boi too, lol. If you know how old he is in the series, do tell! For now, though, enjoy some angst/fluff/idyllic scenery with one of my favorite sob-story characters.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“Memories demand attention, and these memories will have teeth.” -C. Kennedy, Slaying Isidore’s Dragons<br/>
“Deep connection is the antidote to madness.” -Stefan Molyneux</p><p>🎕</p><p>	Dean flew into the wall with the caustic force of a bag of bricks, denting it in no less than three spots and crumbling the plaster in one. He tumbled to the ground but was on his feet again, cursing and holding his back, which Max thought was rather apt for the situation. Before he could do anything, though, Max pointed the gun directly between Dean’s jaguar-green eyes and let it slip out of his palm.</p><p>	It hovered there in the air, cocked itself almost tauntingly, and then swung its barrel around to Alice’s horrified face. Before the shot could go off, Dean sidestepped to where the woman sat on the bedspread. Alice backed up slowly in sheer terror of her approaching demise. Max thought he heard her say his name, but he wasn’t in the mood to hear much of anything right now. Sam’s voice was still echoing in his head.</p><p>	'But it’s not fair,' Max thought, tears streaming down his cheeks. Like always, they were acid-hot. They reminded him of every other time he’d been brought to tears, whipped by whatever object was nearest his father. He tasted salt and remembered what it was like to have to tell the doctor he’d broken his arm during baseball practice. 'It’s not fair.'</p><p>	'...But it’s about to be.'</p><p>	Dean stepped closer. The gun swiftly turned on him, almost like a teacher wagging her pointer finger in practical no-no fashion.</p><p>	“Stay back,” Max heard his own voice, from afar, sounding as if he had a head cold. “It’s not about you.”</p><p>	Perhaps to everyone else in the room, his tone sounded threatening, but Max considered his intonation reassuring and kind. He was, after all, trying to tell these two idiots how everything was supposed to go. It would be over with Alice. Jim was dead, Roger, too, and now Alice had to go. And when that happened, they’d all be gone. The torture would stop. Every memory would cease to harm him. And that fear…</p><p>	That goddamn fear…</p><p>	He’d be free of it. </p><p>But try explaining that to these clowns.</p><p>	“You wanna kill her, you gotta go through me first.” Dean insisted in that tense voice only FBI agents in the movies use. It was irritating, how persistent he was. But Max had no trouble with that.</p><p>	“Okay.” It was the softest word in the murderous silence between them.</p><p>	The bullet painted the wall behind him red with a single shot, and Dean the jaguar-eyed liar fell once more like a bag of bricks to his final resting place.</p><p>	Alice wouldn’t stop screaming.</p><p> </p><p>	Sam felt as if his head were splitting in two. His hands were raw and splintered from hammering on the flimsy closet door, but it was no use, Max had blocked it off with a bureau of some sort and the younger brother was effectively trapped. The premonition of Dean’s death came on with such force that it had him blinking back white-hot tears and scrunching his eyes shut to try to accommodate for the outrageous pain in his skull.</p><p>	“NO!”</p><p>	With Sam’s yell came a groan from the wooden bureau outside, which had spontaneously moved out of the way to help him escape. Before Sam could even consider the possibility of his possessing telekinesis, Dean’s death played over once more in his mind and he shoved the closet door open, thumping up the stairs 3 at a time. He heard the forbidding “okay” fall from Max’s mouth and threw the bedroom door open with all of his might.</p><p>	“DON’T!” He yelled. “Don’t do it. Max, please. Please. Don’t. Don’t.”</p><p>	Max saw him, out of the corner of his eye, but the poor boy was shaking and rooted to the spot. He wouldn’t look. Sam continued to wheedle him, watching as Max’s jaw twitched slightly from how hard he was clenching his teeth.</p><p>	“Max,” Sam implored. “Please don’t. Max. We can help you.”</p><p>	Max considered for a moment, but really, he couldn’t focus with that face Sam was making. It was almost as if he cared.</p><p>	He does care, his brain thought, but the self-doubt put an end to that. No he doesn’t. Why would he? If he thinks you have a connection, he’ll want to use you for something…</p><p>	“But this, what you’re doing…” Sam continued. “It’s not the solution.”</p><p>	The twitching and trembling increased incrementally until Max was shaking like a leaf, face crumpled in pain; no tears left, but plenty of crying.</p><p>	Sam looked at him carefully. Max seemed to be thinking. All of a sudden, his expression relaxed itself into one of clarity and truth. To Sam, this was especially dangerous.</p><p>	“You’re right,” Max said in that same soft-spoken tone. With the flick of his wrist, he sent the gun spinning towards his own head, and it only took a swift crack! for the little boy with a broken arm to be blown to hell.</p><p>	Sam howled.</p><p> </p><p>	“And then what?” (Y/N) asked, stirring her drink. Dean reached over to sneak one of the little mozzarella appetizers she had on her plate, but she smacked his hand away before he could get one.</p><p>	“Come on,” He whined, and she gave him a pointed look.</p><p>	“Order them your damn self,” She retorted, and turned back to Sam and the shivering boy next to him. “And then what?”</p><p>	Sam looked at the boy for a long time, as if expecting him to answer, but this expectation was only met with a thousand-yard stare. “I still don’t know how I did it. I think it was the telekinesis thing. The bullet strayed a little higher than his head, went clean through the wall.”</p><p>	“He’s lucky,” Dean interjected, munching on a mozzarella puff.</p><p>	“Oh yes he is. And you’re lucky I don’t cut off your hand, wrap it in mozzarella and deep fry it.” (Y/N) glared at the appetizer thief, who nonchalantly sipped at the whiskey that had come to the table earlier for a “Frankie Sullivan”. “Now, you called me because why…?”</p><p>	Sam and Dean exchanged one of those troublesome glances that only siblings can decipher. (Y/N) took a swig of her drink, noted the fruity flavor, and wondered whether the bartender she knew was having a bad night.</p><p>	“Well, we think that maybe…”</p><p>	“Because of that creepy thing you have,” Dean interjected.</p><p>	The aura around the table shifted from one of interest to one of irritation, and it settled like a dense fog on the brothers’ shoulders.</p><p>	“Dean, I swear…”</p><p>	The only thing that stopped her in her tracks was the realization that the boy was quivering violently, almost as if he expected to be struck. (Y/N) quickly resolved the aura around the table by focusing on tranquility. She closed her eyes to Dean’s mocking expression and imagined a tree in the sunlight, leaves gently sifting in the wind. She was just starting to get a feel for the blue sky when Sam coughed.</p><p>	“Sorry to interrupt,” he said as the calm aura diminished in strength slightly. (Y/N) opened her eyes.</p><p>	“You’re fine. Go on.”</p><p>	“We think that maybe you can help him.” Sam looked over at the boy, Max, who was now eyeing the woman at the table as if perhaps she were some kind of devil in disguise. “Dean and I will figure something out as far as where he can stay… after the fact. But right now we’re short on time and, well.” He paused. “I don’t think Max really trusts either of us.”</p><p>	“And he would trust me… why?” (Y/N) said, raising an eyebrow and biting into the last of her mozzarella puffs.</p><p>	Dean looked like he was going to say something, but the glare Sam threw his way made him eat his words. He ducked his head and muttered something under his breath, taking a swig of his drink and gazing out across the homely little restaurant in search of a lady without such a heavy aura.</p><p>	“I don’t have a good answer.” Sam blurted. “But you were close by and you hardly ever move around, anyway, and there was that time with the healing thing...”</p><p>	“Yeah, I remember that,” (Y/N) smiled fondly. “First time you were able to put sutures in yourself, and all I had to do was keep thinking about that fluffy bunny. Really does help the pain, all the endorphins and whatnot.”</p><p>	“Exactly. So… you can help him.” Sam made a move as if to put an arm around the boy, Max, but barely touched him. It was like he was made of glass. Hm. (Y/N) took a moment to picture Max as a little glass figurine, and while it was nice to imagine him not trembling at all, the expression frozen on the pale green figure’s face was one of distrust and pain.</p><p>	She opened her eyes and sighed. “Well, let me see. Max, honey, give me your hand.”</p><p>	Max sat, unwilling, blinking wildly. His nose twitched like a rabbit.</p><p>	“Go on,” Sam chided, and that seemed to do the trick. Something about Sam, the boy liked, (Y/N) noted. Probably the psychic connection. She reached across the table and laid her palm out flat, allowing Max to rest his hand in hers.</p><p>	“Now, I’m not a psychic…” She began, and held eye contact with Max, putting the most calming effect to her words she could manage. “I’m not magical. Maybe a little supernatural, like these boys seem to think. I do have a little something above the average human. I call it a ‘heavy aura’.”</p><p>	Max blinked slowly. The effect she had on him—Sam and Dean as well—was almost beautiful. It was a light feeling, sugary, warm, like a bite of molasses cake on a sunny autumn day. For the first time in a long time, his heart rate settled, and he very nearly slumped forward to fall asleep on the restaurant’s table. Sam leaned forward on his elbows, smiling blissfully. Dean almost fought it, raising his eyebrows and shaking his head a little, as if the aura were a silky, invisible cobweb; but he gave in and yawned like a kitten.</p><p>	“It’s a gift.” The aura intensified in the slightest. Max could almost taste the molasses in that wonderful slice of cake… “Much like the one you have. Another thing I can do…”</p><p>	She turned his hand over, so that their palms were pressing together. “...is heavily empathize.”</p><p>	Sam seemed to wake from his reverie, if only for a moment. “I wouldn’t… (Y/N), you don’t—”</p><p>	Quietly, Max gasped, as if someone had just pulled a long splinter from his arm. The aura dissipated, and Sam and Dean tensed up noticeably, watching the woman at their table for any signs of danger. Max was still reeling with conflicting emotions. The softness of her aura comforted him, but the gaping wound the splinter left behind hurt in a primal way; a reminder of how vulnerable he could be in someone else’s presence. The strangest thing, though, was that he could see his pain clear as day on her face.</p><p>	(Y/N) rolled her shoulders back, contorting ever so slightly, face screwed up in tight agony. It seemed as if she were trying not to breathe. Max remembered the day his dad had broken one of his ribs in a fit of rage about losing his wife. It had never really healed right. Repercussive hits and other beatings had torn it so far out of place, it never could have served the same function again. And oddly enough, that didn’t quite bother him anymore. It could make him angry, sure, but it was like scar tissue—thick, healed over; a mark but not a wound.</p><p>	(Y/N) let out a sob, clutching at her side. An angry voice hollered at her from inside her own skull and she was horrified to know that it was his—Max’s—father. Terrible, terrible things were said—she didn’t even want to repeat them. She couldn’t repeat them; too focused on the thrumming in her side and the blistering pain of invisible welts curling around her body. Finally, she was able to come back to earth, with Sam holding her forearm and Dean patting her nervously on the back, asking if she could hear him, if she was going to be okay, yes she would, she would be okay…</p><p>	It stopped. Her ribcage healed with a click and the welts receded. The voice was the last to leave, but eventually, it did too, letting a final whisper of worthlessness torture the mind inside her weeping head.</p><p>	Max looked at her, mortified.</p><p>	She buckled over the table and cried, holding onto Sam’s jacketed arm for dear life. It lasted a good thirty seconds before she quieted, realizing other patrons were nearby; although they were completely soused and probably not able to recognize what was going on around them. So, she took a breath and calmed the residual emotional pain whirling around in her atmosphere, and immediately everyone settled.</p><p>	“I’m sorry,” Max offered in a weak voice. It was the first time he’d spoken since the incident with Sam and Dean, and although it was nothing more than a guilty croak, (Y/N) looked up with a startled expression as if he had screamed it at the top of his lungs.</p><p>	“Don’t!” She exclaimed, and then worked to mellow herself out when she noticed him flinch. “Don’t, baby. Don’t be sorry.”</p><p>	He swallowed, nodded, and got a little bit of that sugary feeling again. She was trying to soothe herself, thinking of that sunny autumn day. “Okay.”</p><p> </p><p>	The rest of the night swam by in bits and pieces of aura-fractured, fruit-flavored goodness. (Y/N) needed a hard few drinks after her encounter with one of the worst abuse cases she’d ever been able to feel, and at the crux of the witching hour was able to come to terms with what had happened. Max was getting increasingly nervous as she mixed pineapple juice and rum. Never had he had a good experience with a drunk. They were either wicked, like his father, or mean, like the man on the sidewalk who had shouted things at him once. That kind of thing was scary for an ordinary child, but Max had never been able to take that route to school again. At least, on the days he could go to school.</p><p>But the drinks only made (Y/N) a little braver, a little stupider, and a little funnier. And she talked. About anything. She told Sam about a few cases she had been researching, was happy to help them find anything as always; talked to Dean about witches and Djinns and how she’d accidentally been responsible for an incident at the local grocery store because her aura had been too heavy. At some point both brothers suggested that they part ways, but not before Dean drove (Y/N) and Max home.</p><p>“An’ I was upset, you know,” (Y/N) carried on, tracing the hem of her skirt with wavering fingertips. “I was upset. Who doesn’t have blueberry yogurt? That’s just insane. They always have it there. Always. An’ you know what, it’s my favorite. I was upset, a little upset. Got in line behind this lady and when she… she got to the… um… money man—” Max noticed her forgetful and yet creative word choice with a twinge of amusement. “—she tol’ him that there was no blueberry yogurt, did he know that, when was the next crate coming in, they ought to have it, some people are having a very bad week and would just like some god damned blueberry yogurt…” (Y/N) hid her face in her hands and laughed almost shamefully. “I got that employee the rant of his life and she ended up screaming so security came to get her. Felt bad about it. Still do.” She looked up again, and swayed a little, though she was sitting in the back of a steadily moving car. “So why am I laughing?”</p><p>“I don’t know,” Max said.</p><p>“Me either.” She said with finality. But a moment later, she was rambling again. “I can pretty much just control people. That scares me, you know. It scares me very much.” She hugged herself, and although his mind was warning him to be wary, Max couldn’t help but want to reassure her. Maybe that was her heavy aura doing the talking, though.<br/>
“I lose it a little bit when I do this,” She waved at herself. “I’ss almost like I forget how. I can’t tell anybody what to think or feel when I’m… tipsy.” She laughed and wobbled in her seat again.</p><p>He nodded, pretending to understand. On some level, he thought he did, but there was always some self-doubt to be factored in.</p><p>“The liquor makes me a li’l bit too honest,” she admitted, attempting to pat Max’s shoulder, but missing by about a half-inch and patting air instead. “An’ I know what your dad said to you. I’m gonna tell you the God honest truth, baby. He was wrong.” She leaned against the door of the Wildcat, hoping for some semblance of balance to come to her as the car purred down the residential road. “Parents are wrong about a lot of things. Figures. Once you’re supposed to raise a kid, it’s like…” She lifted up her hands in an exaggerated shrug, and let them fall into her lap. “I don’t know. I don’t know what it’s like. Don’t let me try to tell you.”</p><p>	“Quit babbling,” Dean said from the front seat.</p><p>	(Y/N) hiccupped and just leaned her head against the window of the convertible.</p><p>	Max thought she was the most curious thing. After she’d taken pain for him, after she’d understood just that little bit, he felt as if he were indebted to her. As if he might actually be able to trust her. When his dad had been drinking, he felt cold all over; listening to his old man rant and rant, in anticipation for whatever beating was coming next. When (Y/N) had been drinking, she became a little old lady, wobbly and frail and almost flirtatious. Max had wanted to hold her waist as she daintily stumbled down the steps of the restaurant, fistfuls of her skirt in both hands. Somewhere in her imagination, she was a princess, striding down a gilded path with a long wedding trail. In reality, Max could smell the pineapple and cherry liqueur on her breath as she giggled and told him for the hundredth time that his hair was just so fluffy. She was very nearly helpless, and although he didn’t want to admire that, because ‘helpless’ was exactly what he’d been his entire life, he loved the feeling of security it gave him. This woman wouldn’t hurt him. How could she?</p><p>	'She could,' his brain interrupted. 'You know she could. She can control others. To some extent, yes, but...'</p><p>He wanted to wave the thought away, and so focused on (Y/N)’s forehead pressing against the glass, her (h/c) hair tumbling over her shoulder in an unbounded, late-shift mess. The thought stuck, but not as much as the others. It was overshadowed by the delightful feeling she gave him. The aura was subtle because of her state, but it was something new and almost intimidating. It had an elevated heart beat, but was just as sugary and warm as her previous disposition had been. Somehow, it was silky, too, and tasted more of tangy dark chocolate than molasses. Max had an vivacious hunger strike him all at once, and he still wasn’t sure what to make of it—until she said,</p><p>	“Dean, ‘s there any chocolate in the… the…” She shook her hand wildly at the glovebox, seemingly forgetting the word. “The thing.”</p><p>	“Probably, but you can get it yourself, because we’re home.”</p><p>	“Home,” crowed (Y/N), and Max felt himself going silly from the wash of excitement that came over him. It was indescribable. Not once in his life could he ever imagine that he would be excited to go to a place called home. And yet, there they were, standing in a driveway at the end of the night, waiting for (Y/N) to finish eating a little midnight snack of the dark chocolate-orange persuasion. The night glowed around them—although it could have just been the streetlights.</p><p>	Sam pulled up behind them in the brothers’ sleek black Impala, cutting the engine and waiting for Dean to guide the still-babbling lady and her delicate consort into the squat suburban home. He had the distinct intuition that this could indeed take a while. Both his brother and Max tentatively helped her to the front door, where she fished around for her keys in one pocket before smacking herself in the forehead and searching another pocket. The clock ticked onwards and just past one in the morning she was able to get the door open, lights on, smothering hugs goodnight, brothers gone on another case, door closed, settled in.</p><p>	The first thing Max noticed about her house was that it had no remnants of anger in it. No broken glass, no irreparable toys, no torn stuffies or baseball bats lying dormant in the shadows. All that was on the floor was furniture and the occasional wicker basket, holding what appeared to be fabric and yarn. She had a stack of books in the corner by the smallest television he had ever seen, and a coffee table that bespoke of several liquid spillages. But there was no garbage out, no liquor bottles, not even dirty dishes. Everything was neatly tucked away in its respective corner, cupboard, or cabinet.</p><p>	The second thing Max noticed was how soft everything seemed. Her dining room chairs, of which there were four, each had a pillow tied to the seat. The couch, which seemed to sag under the weight of four invisible men, had a beautiful lemon-colored afghan tossed over it. The rug in the living room, which just barely extended to the edge of the open dining room, appeared thick and plush, and the little kid in Max wanted to take his shoes off and just run around.</p><p>	“Come,” (Y/N) beckoned in a way that suggested her body was not having an easy time obeying her commands. Max allowed himself to trust her, still curious about what else the house might hold. Did she hide her broken glass elsewhere?</p><p>	Not here, Max thought. The room she brought him to was, in a word, perfect—if not for him, then probably for her. It was a guest bedroom, pristine and sparsely decorated, but the walls were a soothing blue color; reminiscent of the skyline view of a ship at sea. The window sill and trim were white, and the curtains were a matching cheerful blue, lacy at the top where they encircled the black iron curtain rod. The bureau across from the bed was a beautifully carved one; made out of glossy blackwood, much like the nightstand which held only a small brown-and-blue lamp. Max had a moment, taking everything in, where he thought for sure he must be living some kind of fantastical dream. It was really too good to be true, and he wanted to cry for fear that his father would wake him up with a smack and send him off to do some work.</p><p>“Go on.” (Y/N) yawned rather loudly. Her aura spun around him in an instant, entangling him with sleepy thoughts and a sudden desire for the iron-framed bed and its inviting blue-grey gingham pattern. He barely had time to step out of his shoes before he collapsed into the waiting covers, feeling the drowsiness take over.</p><p>	He was enamored with the deliciousness of being on the edge of sleep, teased by the depths which it would take him to; when he realized that (Y/N) was humming aloud to him. It was a melodic little tune, starting out happily and ending on a haunting note, somewhat like Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata. Something her grandmother used to sing to her, he thought.</p><p>	Max barely had time to wonder where that notion had come from when he felt (Y/N) pulling the sheets up to his chin, tucking him in. Surely, he could have cried from the sweetness of such an action—but it was then that sleep decided to take him as one of her own.</p><p>	It was the first time he’d slept well in ages. About twenty years, in fact.</p><p> </p><p>	“Little bitty pretty one…”</p><p>	Max stirred in his slumber. Somewhere, a song was playing on a gritty old radio.</p><p>	“Come on and talk to me…”</p><p>	He awaited the puncturing smell of his father’s black coffee. It never came.</p><p>	“Lovey-dovey lovely one…”</p><p>	What did come was the smell of scrambled eggs and bacon, along with something leafy, and something sweet.</p><p>	“Come sit down on my knee…”</p><p>	Bobby Day sang from somewhere down the hall. It was at this moment that Max realized he wasn’t in his house at all. It hadn’t been a fever dream—it had been real.</p><p>	Or had it?</p><p>	Many a dream had gone like this before. He would fall asleep, still crying, to the riveting imaginative hope that someday, someone would rescue him from his torment. And then it would slowly devolve into a nightmare. Ever since he’d killed—</p><p>	Ever since his father’s death, he’d been tormented by the illusions in his head, gripping pictures spliced with memories of pure and utter fear. The nightmares with his uncle were only a little bit better, if you could even call it that. There was the godforsaken baseball bat he had—that was the worst of it, compared to his father’s thrashings. The worst, except for maybe the broken glass. Max shuddered. You do not hit a child, everyone knows that. But this child had been battered to hell.</p><p>	Max laid under the stifling covers, quivering, wondering when his brain would subject him to the slamming door, the drunken howls, the powerful strength that a full-grown man possessed. He wondered why this room, of all rooms. Why so pleasant? Why not dark, and dreary?</p><p>	Though he waited, eyes as wide as the moon, for a shadowy figure to round the corner, nothing happened. The radio crackled. Bacon sizzled. The sweet smell grew stronger.</p><p>	Cautiously, Max stepped out of bed, and tried to get his heartbeat back down to a resting rate. He felt dizzy, like he was going to be sick, because he really thought that his father—</p><p>	He’s dead, his brain reminded him. You know who killed him, too. You know. You know.</p><p>	Max clutched his head and whirled around, expecting to see ghosts leaping out of his closet; out of every drawer in the nightstand; ghosts with unimaginable rage and a thirst for revenge like no other. The room reeled before him as if he were on a pitching ship in the ocean, but nothing came to light except the haunting whispers of his conscience. Music tootled in the background, Bobby Day singing cheerfully along to his developing panic.</p><p> </p><p>	(Y/N), who had gotten up perhaps a half-hour earlier, was enjoying a serene morning in her favorite sage green dressing gown. The birdsong and cheerful tunes on the radio put her in a good mood after a somewhat nasty night, and she started breakfast with the thought of Max’s comfort in mind. The poor boy… with all he’d been through, it was a wonder he wasn’t a sniveling wreck. At least he’d been able to sleep.</p><p>Her head twinged a little and she sighed, sipping on a glass of water. Two aspirins had wrangled the majority of the ache out of her skull, but some still remained, and it was likely going to be a bit of a nuisance today. 'That’s what you get for drinking,' she thought to herself, wondering how she was going to reprimand Tony the barkeep when really, he was just being kind. She did love those shark’s tooth mixes, after all.</p><p>“Cut me off sooner, next time,” She whispered to herself, and smiled a little. No, that would never happen. She always needed a good aura-dampener, and Tony knew it well.<br/>
(Y/N) was just wondering if perhaps she should wake Max up herself when she heard a worrisome groan of furniture from down the hall. Soon enough she came to her senses when the sound of the blackwood bureau sliding across the floor echoed throughout the house. She shut off the radio and stove top burners before rushing to see what was the matter. “Max?”</p><p>	The doorknob was stuck fast, probably trapped by the bureau. Her fear increased monumentally when she heard him talking to himself—the poor boy sounded so distraught, like he was living a nightmare. Muffled sobs from behind the door only made this assumption into a reality. Quickly, she assessed the situation. She could try to enter the bedroom from the window—but he’d probably blocked that off too. A confirming screech of the iron-framed bed echoed from inside the guest bedroom and she cursed to herself. Her next best option was to just create as friendly of an environment for him as she could. And while she hated doing it, she needed to manipulate his aura.</p><p>	“Max,” She intoned through the door, and she heard the wheezing and panicked crying pause.</p><p>	(Y/N) closed her eyes. There it was, laid out in front of her the same way she’d seen it since she was a girl: rolling pink clouds like garden rows of cotton candy, stretching lazily over the dimming blue sky. The gleaming gold sun was in the west, beautiful even when you had to squint to see it just right, and the field of grain surrounding rustled in the wind with a thrushhh and shishhh. It was a melancholic presence, a memory from when she’d been truly alone in her life. Almost a relic. And it was solemn to behold. While it was not a perfectly happy vision, it told Max all he needed to know: this was reality. He was here, and it wasn’t a nightmare. There were no shadows with him except his own.</p><p>	“Come out and have breakfast, would you?” (Y/N) asked after a long moment of silence.</p><p>	There was a calamity of groaning from the furniture and a fluttering noise, which she assumed must have been the bedspread and curtains rearranging themselves. The door swung open without anyone touching it, and she stood upright, regarding the red-headed mess of a boy in the doorway. Only one word came to the forefront of her mind:</p><p>	Damaged.</p><p>	With one hand, she reached out to him, palm-side up. He took her hand but wouldn’t meet her eye and they walked down the hall to the dining table like the world’s strangest prom couple.</p><p>	Breakfast had yet to be finished, (Y/N) told him, and handed him a napkin he could wipe his eyes with. “There’s tissues in the bathroom, if you need them. What’s got you so scared?”</p><p>	Max wouldn’t answer. He just stared down at the green-painted plate in front of him, wishing Sam hadn’t fucked up with that last silver bullet. It should have been over. Over. If every morning had to be like this… if he had to awaken, sick and delusional...</p><p>	(Y/N) looked at him with an unreadable expression, and spooned some scrambled eggs onto his plate, along with two strips of bacon. Max side-eyed her as she walked back to the stovetop, settled the pan on its burner, and donned a pair of oven mitts to take some of the most delicious-smelling cinnamon rolls out of the oven. After topping them with icing, she lifted one from its spot in the baking pan and placed it in the last empty space on his plate with a flourish not unlike a professional baker.</p><p>	“Water, milk, orange juice or tea?” She asked, wandering back over to the counter.</p><p>	So that was the leafy thing, Max thought to himself, sniffing a little and catching another whiff of the delicious pastry in front of him.</p><p>	Still, (Y/N) waited for an answer.</p><p>	“Tea?” He said shyly, voice still breaking as if he expected to wake up in his father’s stranglehold any second, or in police custody, or in Alice’s house—or alone with all his thoughts.</p><p>	“Tea it is,” (Y/N) said smoothly, taking the teapot off of another stove burner and pouring two mugfuls of the stuff. It had a light scent, almost like a flower in spring. Max caught himself admiring how she bumped her hip against the countertop in the way of someone who is not entirely spatially aware; and resolved to stare at his breakfast until she sat across from him.</p><p>	She did so presently, and tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear before she began to eat like she was savoring every bite. Max didn’t feel much like eating—his knees still quivered like they were made out of Jell-O—but he nibbled at the cinnamon roll to make her feel better. It was about as delicious as it smelled, too.</p><p>	“Will you tell me what happened?”</p><p>	Max looked up, nervous, but only for an instant. She was looking down at her plate, eyelashes fluttering languidly, a spoonful of egg on its way to her mouth. She raised a gentle hand and quieted his anxiousness in a wash of tranquility. “Don’t answer if you can’t. But I won’t hurt you if you do. I won’t say anything at all, if you don’t want me to.”</p><p>	After a stifling fifteen minutes, Max broke and told her everything he’d told Sam, maybe a little more. He talked about how he could still feel the blood on his hands, even though a drop of it had never touched him. How he still desperately wanted that bullet to be put through his sorry head and Alice’s too, how none of them really deserved an existence. He mumbled his way through the throes of tumbling calm that (Y/N) pressed in his direction and told her, in short, everything.</p><p>(Y/N) did nothing but listen, wait, and noiselessly eat her breakfast. Eventually, Max finished. As promised, she did not say a word. She just looked out the window at her neighbor’s siding and a cardinal at the feeder. Her waves of calm continued, ebbing and flowing as rhythmically as the moontide.</p><p>	“I’m just so sick of being scared,” Max said, quietly. The words dropped like a stone to her kitchen floor.</p><p>	“Finish your breakfast.” (Y/N) instructed. He felt a pang of fear in his heart. It was the very tone that his parents had taken on when they were irritated—short, cut up, almost scathing remarks—but he had to remind himself of how kind she’d been so far. If she was irritated, though… that was the big fear. If she was irritated, then that could lead to anger, which could lead to…</p><p>	Max raised a trembling spoonful of eggs to his lips and began to eat, despite his anxieties. If he was once again trapped somewhere where he was forced to fear the owner of the house, there would be multitudes of easy ways out. No one would be able to stop a knife at 60 miles an hour, not if his mind was strong enough. Besides—Sam wouldn’t be there.</p><p>	(Y/N) stood up and walked around the table, taking up a standing position behind his chair. Max felt the hair on the back of his neck stand up as he wondered what in the hell she could possibly be doing. Would he have to kill her too? He wondered. The voice in his head certainly thought so—if he himself didn’t die first.<br/>
Then, she placed a hand on his shoulder.</p><p>	What flew forth from her fingertips very nearly made Max scream with fright. It was almost exactly what his father and uncle expressed towards him. Unfettered rage, blistering scrutiny, sarcastic remarks, the whole package. But what ran under it was a thick red river of… complete and utter sorrow. With this, he realized that the tidal wave of emotion she had impressed upon him was not at him… rather, it was for him. She was angry at his parents and uncle, too. She was writhing in the same pain he was. She felt sorrow for the way he grew up, for the way he was treated, for the things he endured for the entirety of his life. And with that, she placed her other hand on his shoulder.</p><p>	This time, the flood of negative emotions was replaced with a quiet, blooming hum, something that dusted his cheeks pink and gave him the impression of a carnation. Its sweetness complimented the leafiness of the tea and left him hungering all the more for her embrace. And embrace she did: she leaned over the back of his chair, resting her head on his fiery red hair and curling her arms around him ever-so-pleasantly. For a fleeting moment, he was confused at what this feeling could be, although he thought he almost recognized it.</p><p>	Above him, (Y/N) let out a soft gasp in terrible amazement.</p><p>	“What?”</p><p>	“You’ve never felt it,” She whispered.</p><p>	“What?” He asked, persistent now, more afraid for the woman who understood him than for himself. “What?”</p><p>	She grasped his hand, hard, in a loving sort of way; gulped back tears and fought the welts from belt whippings away from his wrists and sides. “Love. Max, honey… you’ve never…”</p><p>	He just looked at her, and although it was the saddest, oddest thing to do in such a situation, he smiled. It was a tiny smile at first. It was small, and unhappy. It was a smile ‘in spite of’. But it became a real smile when she gently pulled him out of his chair and hugged him to within an inch of his life.</p><p>	“That’s gonna change,” She said.</p><p>	He just held onto her. For the moment, her heavy aura melted away and he could see the situation for how it really was:</p><p>	It was nice. It was new.</p><p>	It was love.</p>
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